


When Only Memories Remain

by Norse_Shadows



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norse_Shadows/pseuds/Norse_Shadows
Summary: Geralt comes to terms with his mentor Vesemir's death.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	When Only Memories Remain

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: If you have not played through the Battle of Kaer Morhen, might not want to read.

Geralt sat on the makeshift bed in silence. He couldn't cry. Didn't know how. That's what he'd told Ciri, anyway. Vesemir was dead. The only person that had ever been like a parent to him, the only one who had been there for him for nearly his whole life, as both friend and mentor... was gone. Forever. Kaer Morhen would no longer feel like a home without the stern but caring Vesemir in attendance. Grief slid its knife ever deeper into the witcher's heart. Geralt ran his hands through his hair as he sat, alone, in a small, crumbling room in the keep of Kaer Morhen, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. Everyone had gone off to mourn the elder witcher in their own way, and everyone had understood the need for solitude as they each processed what had been unthinkable in their own way.

If he couldn't cry, if he couldn't _feel_ , then why did his chest hurt? Why was his throat so tight? He'd never really known his mother, not the way that he'd known Vesemir. Grief and helpless rage slithered their fingers across his soul, and Geralt inhaled a shaky breath. While Lambert hated what had been done to them to make them witchers, it was clear that it had been hard on Vesemir to put them through the Trial of the Grasses, and every single one of them had felt that same sense of loss with his passing. A shared and yet, still very personal, very private grief. Vesemir had been more than a mentor. He'd been a friend, too.

Geralt closed his eyes and sighed, resting his face in his hands. His throat burned and his heart ached. He would never forget that sight... or the raw anguish on Yen and Ciri's faces. Yen had tried to hold him back, but she hadn't fought him when he'd brushed past her arm to join Ciri at the side of their mentor's body. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Geralt had tried to convince himself even though he knew- from the first moment he'd seen... the weight in his heart had betrayed the truth he did not want to believe, did not want to see. Lighting that funeral pyre... something inside him died then, too. Geralt could not deny the tragedy that had happened, or the friend he had lost.

That truth was there, sinking deeper into Geralt, pulling him down into a writhing storm, weighing heavily on his heart and mind. It was a grief and pain that he did not have the strength to face, but had to, nonetheless. Death was as much a part of the witcher's way of life as killing monsters was – and they would all face their end some day. Some sooner, some later. No witcher ever died in his own bed, after all – and it was foolish to think that Vesemir would never die. He just hadn't thought it would come this way. _You died protecting Ciri... I won't let your sacrifice be in vain_ , Geralt thought bitterly.

_I never got to say goodbye_. That hurt the most, really. That and not being there, to fight alongside him. Part of Geralt wondered if he'd just been able to reach Vesemir and Ciri – would it have mattered? Would the outcome have been different? _You can wish all you want, but you'll never know, so it's not worth tormenting yourself about it_ , Geralt told himself firmly, giving his head a shake. But that realization didn't stop the hurt, didn't stem the guilt and grief, either. And Ciri... well she was taking it hard, probably hardest of them all, blaming herself. Geralt sighed again. There was nothing he could do or say that would mend the wound in her heart- or his. Only time could do that.

Time. There never seemed to be enough of that, did there? Geralt scoffed lightly to himself at the irony. No, there was never much spare time these days. Time spent among cherished friends was a rare, precious thing that was over far too quickly. This was a brutal and dangerous life, after all, in a harsh and cruel world. Had Geralt known that this would be the last time he'd see Vesemir... He'd what? Slowed down? Drunk a few more beers together? Geralt snorted at his thoughts. They'd had important things to do, and had gone their separate ways on their own errands to that end, eventually finding their way back to Kaer Morhen. Time. So little time.

Now Vesemir's time had run out.

Was he moping? Zoltan had thought so. The dwarf had told Geralt to drink it off, to sleep it off, to do whatever it was that he needed to get his head back on straight, and just go charging back out, get on the offensive, go after the Wild Hunt. The witcher sighed. If only it was so simple. He'd said Geralt was too mired in his loss. Zoltan might've meant well, and Geralt knew that, and so didn't feel resentment nor anger towards Zoltan, but... his friend didn't quite understand the personal pain this loss dealt. Getting up and back into the fight wasn't so simple.

Yennifer opened the door and peered in slowly, trying not to intrude overmuch. “Geralt? May I come in?” she inquired gently, brows drawn in concern. Geralt grunted softly, twitching his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. The sorceress hesitated for a moment, then slowly went to the witcher's side, sitting beside him. For a moment they sat in silence; Yennifer didn't know what to say. Part of her felt helpless, for there was nothing she _could_ say or do that could fix this wound, and the other part of her desperately ached for his loss. It was said that witchers didn't have the ability to feel emotions – but she knew differently. She'd seen the look on Geralt's face, the utter devastation when the cruel truth hit him, and it had broken her heart to witness.

“I'm sorry,” Yennifer murmured softly, touching his shoulder lightly. The defeated slump to the witcher's shoulders was too much to bear. Even if she couldn't cheer him, she wasn't going to let him bear it alone. Geralt sighed heavily. He halfway wanted her to let him be alone with his misery. “I can go, If you want,” Yennifer told him hesitantly. Geralt shook his head, managing a small smile in spite of himself. She always had been able to read him well. There was a moment of awkward silence. “No. No, you can stay. How's Ciri?” He didn't look at her.

“Hurting. She came back and disappeared inside. Give her time, Geralt. Give _yourself_ time.” He finally turned and looked at the sorceress, his lips tugging into a small, sarcastic half-grin at her words. “We don't have time, Yen. I wish we did, but you know we can't linger long. The Wild Hunt's been stopped, but not for long. They'll be after Ciri again soon enough.” There had to be an end to this – and soon. Ciri had been right – she couldn't run, she couldn't hide forever.

Yennifer gave Geralt a hard, searching look. His face was pale, and his eyes shadowed by both grief and fatigue – they had all fought well into the night, defending Ciri and Kaer Morhen. “It's nearly midday. Have you slept at all?” she asked, frowning at him, her voice tinged with concern. Geralt merely grunted and shrugged noncommittally. He hadn't really bothered to notice if he was tired or not. It hadn't exactly been a priority for him, in any case. First there was the funeral, then they had convened with Avallac'h about what actions to take going forward. Besides, he was a witcher, and used to pushing himself far past the human limits of mind and body.

“There were things to attend to.” Geralt replied, then cocked his head and peered at Yennifer with a frown of his own as a sudden thought came to him. “I thought you'd left-- went to search for Lodge members?” Yennifer shook her head. Golden eyes caught and held her violet gaze, and she placed a hand on his gently. “I... wanted to check on you. It's not like I can't leave in a hurry, after all.” The witcher scoffed, nodding slightly. “Right. Portals.” The words came out with a hint of sarcasm, a shadow of his normal self. “Hate them all you want, they're useful in times like these,” the sorceress chided lightly, attempting to cajole him into better spirits.

“Right.” The words were short; a sigh. He'd closed himself off from her again, she could feel it, and Yennifer sighed as once again a chasm of silence opened up between them. It was a long moment before he spoke again. “Can't cry. Don't remember how. Don't _know_ how. That's what I told Ciri, anyway,” Geralt murmured softly. That was the thing about becoming a witcher – maybe it didn't take away your emotions completely, like people were fond of saying, but it blunted them, stripped you of being fully human, of having the right to grieve. He was not human. Not worthy of having grief, just a mutant. No one would understand the bonds they formed while undergoing the horrific training. No one but other witchers cared if one of their own was struck down.

Yennifer put a gentle hand on Geralt's shoulder, bringing him out of his plaintive reverie. “That doesn't mean you don't - can't mourn.” The witcher shrugged, staring out bleakly. “Maybe.” Part of him wished he could cry, but the tears wouldn't come, no matter how much he'd willed it. The witcher wanted so badly to give voice to the thing inside him that was tearing him apart; it was agony to be incapable of it. And Ciri... he'd have to be strong for her, too. He was not the only one devastated by the loss. This... was all for her. What a heavy burden for the girl to carry. But she would not carry it alone. Geralt wouldn't let her. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand wearily.

“You cannot live your life in the shadow of a dead man,”

Geralt closed his eyes. The words, while not malicious, hit home in a way that he hadn't anticipated. _Truth hurts_ , the witcher told himself wryly. He leaned against Yennifer, letting his head rest against her shoulder and sighed softly. Yennifer stroked the witcher's white hair soothingly. She could wait, just a little while, to leave.


End file.
